


Marius Rises In the Esteem of the Revolution

by ryfkah



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, wacky misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 06:10:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryfkah/pseuds/ryfkah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is not Marius' fault that his friends mix their metaphors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marius Rises In the Esteem of the Revolution

“Friend,” said Courfeyrac one day, “will you do something for me?”

“Anything,” answered Marius. 

“I have a message I need delivered; it grows hot in a certain quarter, and my face may be unwelcome. The task requires some secrecy, but there's no danger in it. I shall give you the address --” And he provided him with directions to a house near La Chapelle, as well as an envelope.

Marius accepted both, asking, “But who is it for?”

“Ah!” responded Courfeyrac, with a significant wink. “Why, for that great lady we all love – Enjolras, to be sure, the most purely, but I'd wager to say I have as much passion for her if it comes to that.”

“Ah!” said Marius.

Courfeyrac thanked him again, and Marius set off – and if he was under the impression that he was bearing a billet-doux, it was partly the fault of Courfeyrac, and partly of Enjolras himself; for it could hardly be imagined that Courfeyrac and Enjolras would be professing amorous sentiments to Enjolras' mother! 

“Enjolras in love!” said Marius to himself, as he went. “That is strange.” The further he went, the more it seemed a pity to him that Courfeyrac, with all his dash, should be cutting out that pure-faced young man, who by Courfeyrac's own account was the truer lover. One could imagine how Enjolras might suffer for love; he knew well how little Courfeyrac suffered in his affairs; and the more he went, the more he wished he had not agreed to take the letter. 

Stil, Courfeyrac was Marius' friend. Marius was fully conscious of all that he owed him for accumulated dinners and coats over the years, let alone a place in his house freely given, and how little of this he could hope to repay; while to Enjolras he owed nothing except an evening of embarrassment.

Thus uneasy in his mind, he continued on his way. As he neared his destination, a policeman stopped him. Certain persons had taken an interest in a certain house, and he had been warned to look out for gentlemen of a certain rebellious nature. “Say, young man, I don't know your face; what are you doing in this neighborhood?” 

Marius was ordinarily respectful of authorities, but in his turmoil, he was glad enough to have an excuse to vent his feelings. He rounded on the policeman. “Ah!” he cried, “so the state itself seeks to make its inquiries into the heart of a lover! Well, I am glad to tell you, sir, that it cannot be done; there are still some matters over which earthly authorities have no sway, and no rights. Can the state make injunctions upon a soul? Well, can it?”

The recipient of this discourse, regarding the wild eyes and tangled hair of the one who addressed him, shook his head and let him pass; he thought he knew the signs; lovers of this type are no danger except to themselves, and that was out of his purview.

“And yet,” said Marius, once the policeman was out of sight, “if love held the sway that law does, after all, I should be with her now!” And he gave a heavy sigh, as he climbed the stairs and knocked upon the door as directed. 

It was answered by a middle-aged man, in shabby black clothes, of no particularly significant characteristics; this, perhaps, was by his own design.

“I have a message,” said Marius, as he had been instructed; “it is written in red.” It was an elegant turn of phrase, he thought, for a love-letter. 

The face of the man across from him eased a little, and he reached for the message; Marius let him take it, but lingered on the stop. “Sir,” he asked, “is your mistress at home?”

The man stared at him. “I think that is beyond your errand!”

Marius flushed. “Yes,” he said, unhappily, “I know it is; I have delivered what I meant to; the writer is my dearest friend, and I could not do otherwise, but now I have delivered it –”

“Yes?” 

“-- I would only beg to remind your mistress to give a thought to all those who love her, and to choose well who she will leave in darkness when she takes away her sun; for love is ecstasy and agony both, and a choice such as this is not lightly made! No, I will not do my friend wrong, there is no braver man, no better man, no more generous man; but my friend will never die of love; therefore he does not live for love; and if a man does not live for love, can he be said to merit – ah! But how can I say this is so, when I do not know it is so? Pardon me, I do not know the whole circumstances; and what a cruel thing it is, when all cannot be happy! But I would not have anyone be as unhappy as I!”

Thus coming suddenly to a halt, he made an abrupt bow, turned and departed, leaving the recipient of the letter to stare after him. 

“Well,” said that gentleman, “these students, they're certainly passionate in the cause, it can't be denied; but they talk politics with such flights of fancy that half the time one cannot understand what it is they're going on about!” 

Marius, meanwhile, went home to do what he did most afternoons, which was to sit on his mattress and be unhappy. When Courfeyrac returned, he sat up and announced, “Well, it is delivered, and I wish you well of the outcome; pray believe I want you happy; but I beg you, do not ask me to deliver any more love letters!” 

“As you like,” answered Courfeyrac, and thought nothing more of it until he happened to encounter a certain gentleman, in shabby black clothes, of no particularly significant characteristics.

“If there was another message with the one you sent,” said the man to Courfeyrac, “I am afraid it passed me by.

“Another message? No, I can't recall anything – why, what did the messenger say?”

Then Marius' discourse was recounted. Courfeyrac, immediately understanding the whole of the misunderstanding that had transpired, gave a shout of laughter, as he did for a full week every time the memory returned to him; the end result was that he felt further confirmed than ever in his judgment that a roommate such as Marius was full worth ten times as many dinners and jackets as the ones he had consumed. 

 

And that might have been the end of it – but there was, after all, a little more, some weeks later. Marius had just come from a visit to the Rue Plumet; from what he considered the unhappiest of men, he had just become the happiest; and at this time, he happened to chance across Enjolras in the street. 

On any other day and at any other time, he would have been content to pass without a greeting, but now his heart overflowed, he wished all men as happy as he was, and so he ran up to him. “Sir,” he cried, “pardon my boldness – I have no wish to intrude on what does not concern me, but I must speak – pray believe me when I say that your cause touches my heart nearly; do not despair!” 

He shook Enjolras' hand heartily, and then, overcome by his own daring, hurried along his way. Enjolras looked after him, not displeased.

“Well,” he said to himself, “words mean little, after all; still, there goes a young man who may be truer than I supposed. We will see what becomes of M. Marius Pontmercy!”


End file.
